The Olympic Swimmer
by Raven Mockheart
Summary: Emma and Killian are both on the Olympic USA swimming team. Emma makes a mistake and he comes find her. (The summary sucks and this is the first time I've written something like this, but please do give it a shot.) Reviews are greatly appreciated!


**This is the first thing I've written in too long, and the first thing I've uploaded in longer. All the mistakes you might find are my own, and please tell me if you see any!**

**I do not own OUAT. You know that's the truth, because if I did Emma and Killian would be together by now and- oh, wait. :D (Regardless, I don't own the show.)**

* * *

She cuts through the water, the meters effortlessly flowing away behind her as she causes the water in the otherwise empty pool to ripple.

Head sideways. Breathe. Head down. Left arm, right arm. Repeat.

The faint sound of footsteps echo through the deserted training complex, and she knows who it is and she knows why he's here.

Head sideways. Breathe. Head down. Left arm, right arm. Repeat.

"Swan."

She ignores him.

At the end of the lane, Emma dives down. She performs a flip turn, the way they'd taught her way back when she was still in her early teens. It's executed perfectly to transfer her momentum in the opposite direction, wasting as little time and energy as possible, and she knows this is what she's good at.

Her head breaks the surface, and she takes in a lungful of air. Without missing a beat, she starts her signature, should-have-been-award-winning front crawl again, still pretending she hasn't noticed his presence.

"Swan. I know you know I'm here. Stop hiding from me." The pleading tone in his voice almost takes her by surprise – it's almost enough to compel her to stop the endless cycle she's stuck in and react. But she doesn't.

Head sideways. Breathe. Head down. Left arm, right arm. Repeat.

"I never took you for a coward."

_Go away, I hate you. Go away, I hate myself right now and I don't want to take it out on you._ The thoughts, one ringing false, one ringing true, come to her simultaneously, and she doesn't know which one she should voice. But she won't voice either, won't say anything at all, because she's still pretending he isn't there so that maybe he'll give up and leave. She doesn't want to talk to anyone. Can't he understand she needs time? Can't he understand she needs _space_ after her epic failure? Apparently he can't, because his footsteps are still echoing around the darkened hall and he's still walking next to her as she swims.

Head sideways. Breathe. Head down. Left arm, right arm. Repeat.

Flip turn. She switches smoothly to a butterfly stroke. Her arms are getting tired; she doesn't know how long she's been in here. Minutes? Hours, maybe. But she can't stop now; can't get out of the water, because he's still there and if she gets out she'll have to talk to him. If she talks to him, she'll either cry or hurt him and she doesn't want to do either. But no – _stop thinking about him. Stop thinking about today._ She needs to focus on her butterfly stroke, because it's as hard as ever and if her concentration lapses she'll get hopelessly tangled in her own limbs.

"_Listen_ to me!"

He's getting angry now. Good. Maybe that means he'll leave her be soon.

She's tiring herself out with the aggressive butterfly stroke she's been keeping up for the past four lanes. The cycle of dolphin kick, arms forward, dolphin kick, arms backward is happening purely on instinct now, and she knows she's reached her limit, so she switches back to an ordinary front crawl. She'll switch to a calming breaststroke in another lane or three, she promises herself, to end her impromptu training. Her face is submerged below the chlorine-smelling water, and it feels nice and cool on her cheeks. She knows she's red-faced, flushed from exertion and held-back anger at herself, and she misses the liquid coldness the moment she raises her head above the rippling surface of the late-night pool to breathe.

"I'm not leaving until we've talked." Dammit. She had almost forgotten he was there. "I'll wait at the end of this lane for you to return."

The footsteps finally slow, then stop, but Emma knows exactly where he is. She knows her average speed and the time it will take her to swim two lanes. She knows how long she has until there is no choice but to face him – face what happened during the day's race. No doubt he'll have his lecture ready.

One lane and a half, and she's moving at a relaxing, slow-paced front crawl, which means she gives herself a little over a minute before she gets to where she knows he's waiting for her in his work-out clothes. He _always_ works out at eight pm, and it was seven thirty when she got to the pool. At the end of the lane, she performs another smooth flip turn. As always, she feels like she's one with the water. This is her element. This is what she was born to do. This is what she should be good at. The familiar burning in her strong shoulders from a training that has taken her past her boundaries is comforting, and so is the feeling of the swimsuit clinging to her skin. She knows her muscles won't ache in the morning though, not unless she really switches up her game now. She's not planning to.

Her head breaks the surface, and she starts her planned lane of breaststroke early. If Killian's come to drag her butt out of the water, she should start her cooling-down now. It's not the competitive version of the breaststroke either, but one Emma knows she can keep up for hours if need be. She watches his blurry form grow closer through her swimming goggles, and takes as deep a breath as her motion and the water will allow. She reaches him, and leans on the edge of the pool. Her forearms crossed, chin on her wrists, she looks utterly relaxed. In reality, she's coiled tight as a spring and they both know it.

"I've been here for the past half hour, Swan."

"I know," she sighs, half tempted to float towards the middle of the pool where he can't reach her so she can pretend she's alone. Of course, she knows he'll just jump in right after her if she does.

"You screwed up today."

"I _know,_" she mutters again, now fixing him with an annoyed glare. Does he think she's an imbecile? She fucked up, she lost them the race. She'll be lining the front page of every major swimming magazine for weeks to come, and she has no doubt she's going to have to make up heavily to get past this failure.

"Do you think this is a game?" He's angry too. His striking blue eyes flash with indignation, and she refuses (absolutely _refuses_) to look at them longer than she needs to. "This is _not_ a game!"

"_I know!_" she snaps. He, of all people, should understand her! She was stupid, she screwed up. The up-and-coming star of the female swimming team was stupid and stubborn and all but ruined the USA's chances of a good outcome at the Olympics. "Killian, you and me, we understand each other. You're the young, rising star on the male team. So am I on the female team. You and me, we're the rising stars of our entire _country_ in the swimming department, and everyone back home is leaning on us. You should know how– how _hard_ it is sometimes, to– to just –" She chokes up, unwanted tears making her goggles foggy. She takes them off, wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands, and pretends not to notice the now-awkward silence between them as the seconds drag by.

"I do know how hard it is. And you will make up for today's mistake." He catches her gaze, holds it and continues his sentence, looking at her steadily. "I have yet to see you fail and not fix it."

His complete confidence in her takes her off guard, especially considering her actions during the day's game. It had been a relay race. Her team had been seconds ahead of the other countries, victory had seemed inevitable, and Emma Swan, the wunderkind of the female team, had lost them the race and done so spectacularly. She was supposed to be easily able to take the girls she was racing. She had checked their times against hers, personal records, averages, everything. She _knew_ she should have been able to take them with one arm tied behind her back. She was _better_ than them! She should have come first, and ensured the USA's first gold medal in relay of this year's games.

And Emma Swan had come last and ruined the entire women's relay.

She hadn't known what was happening until it was too late, hadn't noticed the impending cramp in her arms until it was upon her. In the middle of the game, she had been immobilized because she had been too stubborn to go to the masseur the day before. Her turn to be massaged had coincided with Killian's game, and she had wanted to watch him swim so badly that she had gone against her better judgment – and today she had paid the price.

It is not a mistake she will make again.

"C'mon." He sighs, apparently taking pity on her, and his voice shakes her out of her miserable thoughts. He grabs her by her upper arms and physically hauls her out of the water until she's sitting on the edge of the pool, not even giving her time to object. His work-out clothes are soaked through now, but it doesn't seem to bother him and Emma decides not to point it out. "You've been in here for like two hours, Emma. Stop punishing yourself or you won't be able to win tomorrow's individual race."

"Win it? I thought David had told me specifically to –" Their coach had been quite adamant that if the end of the race would turn out to be a battle between Ruby and another member of the USA team, they should let Ruby win.

"To let Ruby win, I know, because _she's a fan favorite and we're all swimming for the same team here, we all root for America, it doesn't matter which one of us comes first and the audience loves her most_ and all that. But if you were to win…"

"Then no one could say that I'm nothing but a waste of space on the swimming team anymore." Emma has heard the critics, of course, and their numbers have quadrupled and their complaints intensified since that day's relay race. "It'd be my first step on the way back to being acknowledged as an Olympics-worthy athlete again." Her voice gets an excited note now as she thoroughly contemplates Killian's suggestion. Ruby would be pissed if she managed to win the thing, of course. Then again, if the redhead could only win by making deals with other swimmers on her team, perhaps she doesn't deserve the victory? Emma loves the girl, but a competition between friends is still a competition, and the swimming business is tough.

"Exactly. Now –" Killian claps his hands together, and hold his hand out to her with an old-fashioned, formal bow that makes her grin as she curtsies in response, imaginary skirts clutched tight in her hands. "Let's get you a nice, long, hot shower. Then we're going to get you a massage."

Arm in arm, they leave the pool.

* * *

The next morning, as Emma is standing on the starting block and tries to ignore the condescending whoops the crowd is sending her way as she waits for the signal, she risks a split-second glance behind her. Killian is standing there with the rest of their team, and as the countdown starts he sends a thumbs-up her way and mouths 'knock 'em dead'. She smiles, reassured, and turns back in time to properly prepare for the race of her life.

She dives.

She swims.

She wins.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this!**

**Feedback is all that can help me improve.**


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